


Peace Talks

by foxtrotter31



Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst and Humor, F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-13
Updated: 2015-03-29
Packaged: 2018-03-12 04:52:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3344303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxtrotter31/pseuds/foxtrotter31
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"The talks between Ferelden and Orlais took place in Jader, and it... was not easy to keep matters from spiraling out of control."</p>
<p>King Alistair, in a bad mood due to recent events and sorely missing his wife, attends negotiations for peace between Ferelden and Orlais, facilitated by the Inquisition. It does not go well. </p>
<p>Three part fic.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Road to Jader

“Keep that scowl long enough, and your face will freeze like that permanently.”

Alistair started, pulled away from his thoughts. “I’m not scowling.”

“Really? Because that displeased look on your face certainly isn’t a smile.” 

Alistair sighed and maneuvered in his saddle to fully face Teagan, who regarded Alistair with mild amusement. The sound of hoofbeats and idle chatter stretched on behind the two men as the party rode north through the wood, past Amaranthine and Highever and soon into neighboring Orlais. 

He forced a grin, lips curling wide over his teeth. “There. Better?” 

Teagan barked out a laugh. “Not at all.” 

“I didn’t think so.” 

A soldier rode up beside Alistair and Teagan. “Your Majesty,” he said, “night approaches. Allow me to scout ahead for a spot to camp for the night.” 

“Sure. Go ahead.” 

“Right away, Your Majesty. My Lord,” he nodded to Teagan before kicking his horse into a run and heading off. 

Alistair took a deep breath, inhaling the fresh northern air; a combination of horses, pine trees, and sea salt, calming his senses. “How much further to Jader?” He asked. 

“Not much more than a day’s travel, two days at the most,” Teagan responded. “You’ve been quieter than usual these past few days,” he added after a moment. 

Alistair shrugged. Not much to say to that. 

“Normally you’d be chattering away. Talking about inane things, like that great dinner the cook made a week ago or the best parrying technique. Or… you’d be engaged with your men, discussing ale flavor or some such nonsense. Or perhaps you’d be talking to your horse. This silence isn’t normal.”

“Nothing’s ‘normal’ right now,” Alistair snapped.

Teagan raised an eyebrow. 

“Sorry,” Alistair mumbled, embarrassed by his outburst.

Teagan regarded him more curiously. “What’s gotten you so ill-tempered lately?”

“Is that a joke?” Alistair scoffed.

“I meant aside from the obvious.” 

“If by ‘obvious,’ you mean how most of the nobility is furious with me for how I handled the mage-templar war, I’m headed into Orlais to meet with… you know, _Orlesians,_ I haven’t seen my wife in over a year—”

“—I get it, I get it. You haven’t had the best time of it lately.” Alistair snorted and turned back around to face the road, ignoring Teagan. Compared to most Orlesian cities, the road to Jader wasn’t a long one at all, but the journey still felt exhausting. Perhaps the thought of having to engage in a civil manner with people who thought him little more than a glorified barbarian was what was making Alistair feel so much more tense than usual. These peace talks, however, were a necessary evil, if Alistair wanted to ensure Ferelden’s safety from Orlais and win back the favor of the nobility. 

As to his sense of impending doom, well, Alistair would just have to deal.

They rode on in silence for a few minutes longer, Alistair absentmindedly patting his horse’s neck. A beautiful purebred Amaranthine Charger with a coat the color of a fresh snowfall, the horse had been a twenty-sixth birthday gift from his wife. For her birthday later that same year, Alistair gifted Elissa a mare of the same lineage as his own horse, black as midnight. _Now we’re matching,_ he’d joked, his queen humming her agreement as he’d pulled her into a playful kiss. 

Alistair turned back to Teagan, his thoughts now focused on his missing love. “If Elissa were here… I’d be much less nervous than I am. She’s much better at this sort of thing than me.”

Teagan snorted. “No she’s not. You’re much better off attending these talks without her.”

“What? How could you say—”

“Alistair, that woman does not have a single diplomatic bone in her body. Believe me when I say dealing with Orlesians requires a subtlety she does not possess. If Elissa came with us, that temper of hers would inevitably flare, and I would get the unfortunate privilege of having to explain to the empress why the Queen of Ferelden pulled a sword on a duke for looking at her the wrong way.”

“I think that’s a bit of an exaggeration.”

“Maybe, but I would rather not test it.” 

Alistair sighed; of course Teagan was right. Putting his fiercely Fereldan warrior queen in a room full of frilly Orlesians was a decidedly bad idea. Not that Alistair would be much better. 

“At least she’d be there to suffer through it with me.”

Thoughts of his wife consumed and clouded Alistair’s mind more every single day she was gone. _It’s a good lead,_ she’d pleaded, trying to convince Alistair to let her go, _the best I’ve had. I have to follow it._ He had begged her not to leave, then tried commanding her to stay. _It’s dangerous,_ he’d argued. _You don’t need to do this._ But she did need to do it, and Alistair knew that—which was why he eventually let her go, not that he could have stopped her. He wasn’t oblivious to the way she sometimes acted moody and sullen for no clear reason, or how nightmares still sometimes plagued her, even all these years later. Not just nightmares of the darkspawn… but of the night of her family’s massacre as well. Curing the taint would not only rid them both of the rot in their blood, but perhaps help her vanquish her demons once and for all. 

_And when I cure this,_ not ‘if,’ Andraste bless that stubborn, stubborn woman, but ‘when,’ _maybe… maybe we’ll finally be able to have a family of our own._ And that longing, uncharacteristically timid statement was what had finally broken Alistair. He knew how badly Elissa wanted a child, Maker’s breath, he knew how badly he wanted a child. The courtly gossip worsened with every year that passed without a royal heir. It was painful enough to want to have children and be unable to do so, never mind the nasty women who called her barren or Alistair’s advisors beginning to suggest he make _alternate arrangements._

So he’d given her his blessing and seen her off. _I won’t be gone long,_ Elissa had promised. _A year at the most._ The year had passed a little over a month earlier than the trip to Jader, and there was no sign of her coming home anytime soon. In the first several months, she’d written often, albeit with less and less frequency as time wore on. Alistair hadn’t received a letter from her in four months. He hoped—prayed—it was because she was deep on the trail and not because of the much darker possibility Alistair refused to consider. Whatever the case, he worried for her constantly. 

The soldier Alistair had sent to scout for a camp spot was returning as the distant sky began to shine the brilliant orange and pink of the encroaching evening.

“You shouldn’t have too bad of a time. Celene is a sensible woman, and it’s in Orlais’ best interest to remain at peace with Ferelden. The Inquisition’s people will make sure the talks go off smoothly,” Teagan reassured. 

“Maybe. I just hope this whole thing goes by quickly. I can only handle Orlesians for so long before I feel like I need a bowl of Fereldan stew and a bath in Mabari drool to get rid of the stench. You know, their… perfumes and such.” 

“On that we can agree,” Teagan wryly responded. Before long, the party made camp for the night, and Alistair prepared himself for the inevitable doom he would be facing in the days to come.


	2. Comfortably Uncomfortable

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Alistair and Teagan arrive in Jader, much to Alistair's dismay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's been so long since I've updated, I've been very busy with university and should have some more time to write soon. I've decided to make this four or five chapters instead of the originally planned three, and this chapter is a bit of an interlude between traveling and the actual peace talks.

Everything in Orlais smelled like flowers. 

And not the simple, nice flowers that grew in the gardens of Ferelden’s royal palace; roses and daisies and sunflowers. No, Orlais smelled like frilly and pretentious flowers; the type of flowers that only grew when the soil was an exact shade of brown or the sun shone directly on them for exactly four hours everyday and whose names were at least four words long. Compared to Orlais, Ferelden really did smell like wet dog.

Though Alistair would take wet dog smell any day over the Orlesian palace’s air that hung thick with the heavy Orlesian perfumes that came in tiny glass bottles with names like “ _L’Oeuf_ ” and “ _Le Cul_ ” and “ _Musc Virile_.” Not that it mattered. He would only be leaving when either a peace treaty bore his signature or a formal declaration of war did. 

Celene’s palace in Jader was unlike any of the manses and castles scattered throughout Ferelden. Those pretentious Orlesian flowers Alistair hated so much sat arranged carefully in crystal vases, at least three to a room. All the furniture had an air of fragility to it; Alistair worried he’d break the chairs just by sitting on them. 

“Elissa’d hate this sort of thing,” he murmured, staring wide-eyed at the bejeweled headboard of the bed in his room within the guest wing of the palace, naked women carved into the fancy white wood. 

“What was that, Your Majesty?” the steward, a timid little man with a thin mustache and an unpronounceable name, fluttered nervously about the room, rattling off pointless information about the bedsheets’ thread count and the wood quality of the end tables the damned flowers in their damned crystal vases. 

“Oh, uh… nothing. Just… talking to myself. You know.” 

The man’s nose wrinkled in puzzlement (or was it distaste? One could never be too sure with these Orlesians) beneath his elaborate mask, but he quashed the look with practiced ease. “Of course, Your Majesty. Her Imperial Majesty wishes for you to make yourself comfortable during your stay. The empress also wishes for me to convey that you and the members of your party are free to move about the grounds as you please.”

“Uh-huh. And when exactly will I be meeting the empress.” 

“The Inquisition’s ambassador, Lady Montilyet, will go over the itinerary with you upon her arrival, Your Majesty. Until then, the empress wishes for you—”

“—To get comfortable, do as I please, blah blah blah. I get it, thanks.”

“Very good, Your Majesty. If there is anything you need during your stay, just alert any of the staff and your needs will be taken care of immediately.” The man bowed so low his nose nearly touched the floor before turning on his heel and leaving the room, closing the doors and leaving Alistair to himself in the large, ornate bedroom. 

Alistair stripped off his traveling clothes, throwing them in a haphazard pile on the floor and changing into a clean undershirt and pants before collapsing on the bed, his tired body sinking into the soft down of the mattress. Within just a few minutes he was drifting on the verge of sleep, and then—

Knocking. Harsh, persistent knocking, each beat of fist against wood a cruel punishment from the Maker himself for daring to acquire a bit of relaxation on this trip of upmost importance—

“Your Majesty? Are you in there?” Came the muffled voice through the door.

“ _Ugh_.” Alistair groaned into his pillow. “ _Go away_.” 

The doorknob turned, and the flagrant offender’s footsteps echoed on the room’s marble floors. 

“I said go aw—oh. It’s just you.” Alistair sat up, yawning pointedly. “Can’t you see I’m busy?”

Teagan crossed his arms over his chest, squinting at Alistair. “Clearly.” 

“I’m the _king_ ,” Alistair grumbled, getting out of bed as Teagan made his way over to the table across the room. “If I want to take a nap, I can. I should have you thrown in the dungeons or something.”

“Oh, don’t be so dramatic. You can nap later,” Teagan said, rolling his eyes. “First I need to go over some things with you before the meetings begin.”

Alistair took a tentative seat beside Teagan, releasing a breath when the delicate chair didn’t collapse beneath his weight. “What’s there to go over? The way I figure, it’ll just be something like, ’You don’t attack us, we won’t attack you.’”

“It’s not that simple. There’s trade regulations to discuss, military aid agreements—” 

“I know, I know. I just… ugh. This whole country smells wrong.”

Teagan chuckled. “You’ll get used to it, trust me. At any rate, the Inquisition’s people should be arriving tomorrow morning. I’ve been communicating with Lady Josephine; she’s very good. She’s completely prepared to facilitate the negotiations.”

“Great. Wonderful. Perfect. Don’t you find it a bit strange Celene hasn’t even tried to greet me or anything? Not even a quick stop by to say ‘hello’? Talk about hospitality.”

Teagan smirked. “You know these Orlesians. Every move carefully calculated and precise. Which I must remind you, Alistair: the Orlesians live and die by the ‘Game.’ Don’t be fooled by false sincerity; every person who talks to you will have some sort of agenda hidden behind their mask. And be very careful with what you say, as well. Orlais may be in no place to strike at Ferelden, but that won’t stop their nobility from dissecting your every move. When it comes to these people, no one ever simply ‘stops by.’”

“Perhaps I should get my own mask, then. A mabari, maybe? I bet they’d like that.” Alistair grimaced at his own joke, imagining himself and the members of his court wearing masks decorated to look like dogs. It was not a pretty sight. He sighed.

“Tell me honestly, Teagan: what are my chances of getting assassinated?”

“I’d say slim to none.”

“Hm. Good enough, I suppose. But if I die tomorrow, tell my wife I love her.”

Teagan barked out a laugh as he stood up to leave. “Once again, Alistair, stop being so dramatic. You’ll do _fine_.” He strode over to the door, turning to bow as he opened the door. “I’ll see you at dinner, Your Majesty.” 

“Right. And when is that exactly?” Alistair asked.

“Someone will fetch you. Go back to your nap.” The door closed, and for a second time that day Alistair was left alone in the strange room. 

“Thanks, Teagan,” Alistair grumbled to himself. He sighed heavily, running a hand down his face. “No one better try to poison me. I should really have hired a food taster,” he said as he made his way back over to the bed. Alistair flopped back onto the mattress, finally falling into a much-needed nap, full of unpleasant dreams of the negotiations to come the next day.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up next, the negotiations begin. They go about as well for our king as one can imagine. 
> 
> Thanks for sticking with me!

**Author's Note:**

> Chapter 2 coming soon!


End file.
